


Frozen

by potentiality_26



Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Mentions of Jim/OMC, Pre-Series, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentiality_26/pseuds/potentiality_26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Artie brought Jim his beer, Jim said, “Hi, Artemus,” to him softly.  He wondered if his fellow agent would be annoyed that Jim had seen through his latest disguise.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>He didn’t seem to be.  In fact, he lit up like a hundred candles.  “Well, hello, James,” Artie drawled in a matching low voice.  “Fancy seeing you here.”</i>
</p>
<p>Jim runs into Artie at Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frozen

“Someone drew the short straw this Christmas, eh?”

Jim looked up from the transfer papers he was signing to attest that he’d delivered the prisoner as instructed and raised an eyebrow.  Did the guard on duty mean himself, or Jim?  He wasn’t sure, and he quickly concluded that he didn’t care.

The guard appeared to have concluded that Jim was very rude.  Jim didn’t much care about that either, though the guard unfortunately needed no input from Jim to begin and then continue a conversation.  “’Course, the snow’ll be so thick by now that you’ll have to stay a few nights.”  This seemed to please him.

As much as he wanted to give the guard no reaction whatsoever, Jim shrugged his shoulders, not looking up.

Once everything was signed and in order, Jim strode through the prison gates and back into the aforementioned snow.  He squared his shoulders against the biting cold and closed the distance between himself and the town proper as quickly as he could, searching out a hotel that would put him up until the roads were passable again.

The way Jim saw it, he’d drawn the short straw all right.  Christmas meant little more to him than any other holiday, and those meant almost nothing- so he didn’t mind about that.  Frankly, it had been amusing more than anything to hear the guard comment on it.  By now, most of the people in Washington took it for granted that Jim would be no more inconvenienced by such a mission than a chair might, or- more aptly, perhaps- a gun.  He went where he was pointed and he did what he was asked- but there was little need to take his feelings into consideration.  Did he even have any?  Jim knew that he did, of course- but he sometimes thought himself every bit the automaton the others did.  And his only objection to working on Christmas was that he was now trapped in a town in exactly the middle of nowhere, perhaps for several days.

The bottom floor of the hotel Jim found was a saloon, and he thought a drink and a hot meal- maybe some companionship- would make the town look a bit better.

With the snow piling up, he knew he didn’t have much choice in the matter.

He shook off as many flakes as he could, though he inevitably carried muck on his shoes in with him.  He scanned the room and saw three girls, two blonde.  One had an oddly fetching scar next to her eye and was already entertaining two men at the same table while the other merely sat in the corner with a lackadaisical expression.  There was also a skinny, slightly desperate-looking redhead missing her two front teeth.

Jim concluded that companionship probably wasn’t in the offing.  He’d add it to the list of things he didn’t really care one way or the other about, but he had no idea what else he’d do tonight.

“Some stew and a beer, please,” Jim requested when he reached the bar. 

The man standing behind it nodded and made for the back room.  Jim pulled up a stool and sat very still, observing him.  _Wasn’t_ companionship in the offing?  The bartender was a lightly muscled, broad-shouldered sort and Jim liked the look of him.  In fact, the chill seemed to have gone out of the room the moment Jim properly laid eyes on him.   

Jim wouldn’t be propositioning the man.  He rarely tried it, and then only in the larger cities, where secrets were easier to keep.  But for a moment he lived in a pleasant world of possibility, where the bartender might turn around with a twinkle in those brown eyes, as if he knew just where Jim’s gaze had lingered, and-

_Were_ his eyes brown?  Jim wasn’t sure he’d even shared a glance with the man.  He told himself briefly that it was likely overactive imagination, but his instincts cried foul.  They knew better.

His hands clenched into fists and he had to force himself to breathe easy.  The flash of anger he felt was not only pointless and impossible to direct but unreasonable and uncalled for as well.  Artemus Gordon had been at fault for many things in his time, Jim was sure- but Jim’s attraction to him was not one of them.  The other secret service agent had done nothing to encourage it, and was likely unaware of its existence.

Jim intended to keep it that way.

Jim watched the former soldier- and former actor- as he returned and then bent over a keg.  He looked unshaven and rumpled, slightly grimy.  He walked with a stoop and spoke to whoever was in the kitchen with an Irish accent, and in a voice pitched several degrees higher than his own.  By any technical measure, there was nothing whatsoever about the bartender that was at all redolent of the man Jim had worked with several times before, but there still remained that tiny trace of something- something Jim’s libido, at least, could always detect.

When Artie brought Jim his beer, Jim said, “Hi, Artemus,” to him softly.  He wondered if his fellow agent would be annoyed that Jim had seen through his latest disguise.

He didn’t seem to be.  In fact, he lit up like a hundred candles.  “Well, hello, James,” Artie drawled in a matching low voice.  “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Have dinner with me,” Jim said immediately, surprising even himself a little.

Artie lifted a brow, glanced around the saloon, and shrugged.  Then he returned to the back room briefly, presumably to tell whoever was cooking to make it two stews.  Jim watched him go with a sharp ache in his chest.  The surprise he’d voiced upon seeing Jim was definitely a lie, and not one he’d invested much energy in.  But why was he here?  Had Colonel Shear assigned him as backup without telling Jim beforehand?  Was there something else going on in this town?  Could there be another reason?  Jim decided not to let himself wonder; trying to fathom Artie’s motivations was almost as unrewarding as pondering those of his employers.

When he delivered Jim's stew, Artie pulled up a stool on his side of the bar and ate along with him, making conversation as he did so.

He talked loudly enough that a so-inclined patron could listen in and spoke with his feigned accent.  It was like a game for Jim, figuring out which bits of discourse were for his ears couched within the anecdotes of a stranger.  He would’ve enjoyed the conversation anyway- Artie always made him laugh.   He wondered- not for the first time- if the older man knew that most people thought Jim might as well have been made of stone for all the affection he felt for others.  He wondered what they would say if they could see him now.

After dinner, as he was clearing up, Artie spoke softly again and passed Jim a key labeled with a room number.   “If you’re not… occupied, come see me later.”

Jim took the key, knowing that he’d use it.  He’d never really intended to try his luck with the ladies, but he’d turn one down before he gave up a chance to be alone with Artemus.  It might have been foolish to torment himself that way with something he’d never have, but unfortunately Jim couldn’t seem to help it.

And it _was_ unfortunate.  Wanting Artemus Jim could deal with- he’d ignored attraction to plenty of men in his time. 

If only he didn’t _like_ this particular man so damned much.    

*   *   *

Jim spent the rest of the evening waiting.  He checked his weapons, oiling and polishing where needed, and then took a nap, curled around himself to ward off the deep cold.  When he awoke he made a pass of Artie’s room to see if he was there yet.  His question was answered in a less than pleasant way when he heard a shout coming from inside that was definitely Artie’s voice.

He got the door open and came rushing in, only to find the other man alone and- as far as Jim could determine- totally unharmed.  He squinted at Artie, who was down to his shirtsleeves despite the cold and looking more gorgeously rumpled than ever.  The stoop was gone but the stubble remained, and Jim thought it suited him.  Jim’s gut tightened and he thought that maybe being there at all was a mistake- but he _was_ there, and he could only wait for Artie to explain what had happened.

Artie put his hands up and said, somewhat sheepishly, “There’s a spider on the wall.”

Jim didn’t laugh, but it was a near thing.  He glanced in the direction Artie was pointing, noting as he did as that the other man had managed to put what furniture there was in that little room between himself and it.  In Artie’s defense, it was a very big spider.  In fact, if Jim was going to be afraid of spiders he might well begin with this one.  As it was, he entertained a healthy respect for it.  It was dark and fat and there was definitely something nasty about it.  “Hell of a place to spend the next few days,” Jim observed of the hotel.

Artie shrugged and didn’t use the opening to explain his presence in town. 

Jim didn’t let this get to him- it had been a long shot anyway.  “It’s possible I got sympathy from a guard at the prison for having to work at Christmas,” he remarked.

“Is that today?” Artie looked amazed.

“Tomorrow.”  Making this Christmas Eve, Jim calculated.  He wondered if Artie’s surprise as to the day was fabricated as he considered what to do with the spider.  It was too high to reach, which left him with one option. 

“Shoot it,” Artie suggested.

Make that two options- one not very viable.  “I would,” Jim said slowly.  “But I don’t think the people who run this place would look too kindly on that kind of behavior, and we do have to stay here for a few more days.”  What Jim _could_ do was throw something at it.  He told Artie so.

“Like a book?”

“Sure.  If you _want_ me to throw a book at it.”

Artie went to his carpetbag, keeping one eye on the spider, and rooted around in it for a while until he produced a thin volume.  He carried it to Jim as if it already had a flattened spider carcass on it, held carefully between finger and thumb.  Jim smiled; he should’ve guessed that Artie would be the kind of person who, if he disliked the contents of a book, would extend that dislike to its physical body.  Jim didn’t read much and almost didn’t bother, but he couldn’t help being a little curious about what had incurred Artie’s wrath, because he thought Artie was the kind of person who usually treated books with reverence, not scorn.

Jim was surprised to recognize it.  It wasn’t some treatise on government or book of philosophy but rather a dime novel- one about Jim.  Oh, his name was changed and so were the names of all the other people involved, but there had been an author in the city during the incident and he’d taken the liberty of writing what he knew of it down.  And, of course, making up the rest.

For a moment, Jim wondered if Artie knew about his connection to the story- then he realized how silly that was; _of course_ Artie knew.  “You know this is barely above fiction.”

“Of course I do.  It’s the principle of the thing.  More ridiculous drivel I’ve never read in my life, and I’ll read just about anything.”

“Well, yeah.”  Jim laughed a little, enjoying Artie’s regal sniff.  “But it doesn’t _matter_.”

“Do you really mean to say that it doesn’t bother you?”

“What?” Jim asked, frowning.  At first, he honestly didn’t understand what Artie thought might bother him- unless it was the fact that someone had written about what happened at all.

Raising an eyebrow, Artie elaborated.  “How you’re portrayed here- doesn’t it bother you?”  He did sound genuinely curious. 

“No one ever asked me that,” Jim admitted, and why would they?  It wasn’t anything they didn’t think themselves.   It was hard for Jim to articulate even in his own mind what he’d been in that story.  Perfectly formed as a marble statue and just as heartless- that would be one way to describe it.  “I don’t really mind,” Jim said, though it might have been lie.  He did, of course, often see himself that way.  He had earlier that day, hadn’t he?  He told Artie so: “I’ve thought it of myself enough times.”  And if the book had stung- well, it was Jim’s own fault. 

He wondered if it was also silly to wonder if Artie knew that Jim and the author had been… well, lovers wasn’t the word.  But… involved.  God help Jim, Artie probably did.  He probably knew everything.  Artie said, “But you’re not,” gently. 

He sounded very sure, and Jim couldn’t look at him just then.  He looked at the book’s cover, and in that moment he thought that just maybe throwing the book at the spider on Artie’s wall would make him feel better, so he did.

He missed, which spoke to his state of mind, but he hit close enough that the spider plummeted to the floor.

It went careening across the uneven wood and Artie immediately sped in the opposite direction.  There was something in his expression that made Jim suspect that he wasn’t entirely as afraid as he’d been making out.  But Jim couldn’t begin to guess how much was false and how much wasn’t- and as Artie tripped and Jim caught him, pulling him against his chest and getting a whiff of cheap whiskey and cologne, Jim didn’t think it mattered.

The spider vanished beneath the bed.  Jim tightened his grip on Artie, forgetting about the spider and about the book and about the man who had written it.  He forgot about the guard at the prison and about his fellow agents in Washington.  He forgot about everything but the fact that Artie felt exactly as good in his arms as he’d always known he would. 

“You can sleep in my room,” Jim offered, and bit his lip as he considered the temptation Artie would present in his bed overnight.  James West the statue, the weapon, who went where he was pointed and did what he was asked, who needed almost nothing and wasted no time wanting things he couldn’t have- what happened to him, exactly, whenever Artemus Gordon walked into the room?  Jim could never tell- he knew only that whenever they were together he stopped feeling cold inside and started to feel like Tantalus himself instead.  “If you like.” 

“My hero.”

“Artie.”  Jim laughed breathlessly, the nickname he’d only used in his mind thus far startled out of his mouth.  He knew he had to think of a clever rejoinder or let Artie go, but he found himself unable to do either, and for the same reason: Artie felt _too_ good in his arms.  “You really afraid of spiders?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” Artie said gravely, eyes twinkling.  “It’s a weakness.  We all have one- except maybe you, or so certain writers would have me believe.”

“Oh, I’ve got one,” Jim replied, before he could rethink the wisdom of the admission.  It was, he thought, ambiguous enough- by no stretch some grand declaration of passion.  He doubted the other man would read anything much into it- unless, by some miracle, he wanted to.

Artie made a thoughtful sound and rested one hand on Jim’s chest.  The other found Jim’s hair.  “Yes,” he murmured.  “I believe you do.  Merry Christmas, Jim,” he added, and tugged on Jim’s hair to pull their mouths together.  Jim was too stunned to return the kiss, but the warmth of Artie’s mouth seemed to sink all the way into his bones.

When Artie pulled back, Jim stared at him.  “Merry Christmas,” he managed.

Grinning, Artie got a grip on Jim’s lapels and led him toward the door.  “Come on then,” he said.  “We’ll see if your bed passes muster.”

Jim caught him halfway there, but only so he could kiss him once more before they went out into the hallway.  He pressed his mouth to Artie’s and felt his smile, all soft lips and rough stubble and unfathomable intentions.  Jim thought again about asking him what sort of game he was playing, but he just didn’t care.

And for once, that felt good.


End file.
